


you and me (we are meant to be)

by aohatsu



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: AU, M/M, Royalty, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1349899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick is a pretty big fan of hockey, mostly because his dad was a big fan before he ended up bonding to his mom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you and me (we are meant to be)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Madelyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/svmadelyn/pseuds/svmadelyn). ♥ 
> 
> This was originally intended to be much longer, but I'll never finish it. Ever. So this is what we all get.

Patrick is a pretty big fan of hockey, mostly because his dad was a big fan before he ended up bonding to his mom. His dad took him out when he was little, teaching him how to skate on the frozen pond in the west gardens, and Patrick joined a team when he was old enough, because he’d begged and begged and it was his birthday, so his mom couldn’t say no. It was a pain and a half, if Patrick believes half the stories his parents tell him – which, he does, mostly because there’s photographic evidence. The paparazzi would show up at every game and practice; they would hassle the other kids and the workers, and the arena had to have extra security on all the doors, and medical staff on-ice at all times, just in case something happened. 

Patrick sighs; being the firstborn kid of the Queen is kind of a downer.

As he got older and kids got rougher, his mom pulled him out of traditional leagues altogether. He’s still allowed to play with royal staff and other kids, when they visit the property, or they have a game set up with all the extra protections set in place, but it’s not the same. Patrick misses the _competition_ , misses having something to really fight for on the ice, a reason to play as hard as he can. 

He’s seventeen now, and his parents have just sat down and asked him, smiling like they already know his answer, if he’d like to play in a – purely demonstrational, non-contact – match against Canada at the World Juniors tournament next month. Apparently the heir apparent of Canada is going to be playing, which isn’t incredibly surprising, actually, Canada like, pioneered the idea a few years ago, although Crosby’s a duke, not the heir apparent.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, eyes wide, looking from his mom to his dad, and then, “Yeah!”

He’s never met any of the guys on the team, but he gets to start going to training camp with them. He doesn’t practice with them _a lot_ , because they have to train for the actual games, but like they’re going to say no to getting to skate with him, really. The match is all anybody’s talking about on television, in the papers – apparently it’s been completely sold out already, because Canada vs. America is one thing, but when both heir apparents are in the game, it’s something else entirely. 

He’s never actually _met_ Jonathan, Prince of Canada. He thinks they probably could have: it’s not like there’s a shortage in international conferences that Patrick’s mom has dragged him to over the years, but somehow they’ve never ended up at one at the same time. At least, not that Patrick remembers. Maybe when they were younger.

Erica drops her chin on his shoulder, and he shuts down his laptop before she can see the kind of embarrassing pictures of the guy Patrick had had up on the screen. They were just the first results on google, and Patrick can’t really resist puppies – it was cute, sue him for wanting to see the high-definition versions. 

“I met him at that summer thing we did last year,” she says, “you know, when you got drunk and mom was so horrified she wouldn’t let you leave the grounds for like, a month.”

He hadn’t realized three shots were going to be capable of ruining his life quite so quickly. Every paper in the country felt the need to enlighten him the morning afterward, and he’d had to give a speech about the evils of alcohol and how he was sorry or whatever. Someone else wrote it for him. His head had hurt at the time, and he doesn’t really like to remember it.

“Well,” Patrick says, “not knowing him will make it easier to beat him.”

She laughs at him, and then leaves and lets him move into his bedroom and climb underneath his comforter, ready to get some sleep before flying to Winnipeg in the morning, where the tournament’s being held this year. He falls asleep with the idea that he wants to win, for himself and for his country, and to give the team a good start for the actual matches that’ll count in the end. 

 

They have both anthems sung with the teams lined up on the ice, and Patrick has to keep himself from laughing when the Canadian one plays – what sort of song is that, really? But whatever, he has to keep a straight face, because he knows for a fact that there are about three hundred different cameras focused on him, capable of catching even the barest smirk.

He doubts laughing at the Canadian national anthem would start an international incident, but weirder shit has happened.

There’s two sets of medical staff in the tunnels, extra security too, and Patrick’s bodyguard, Bruce, is sitting on the edge of the bench, looking dumb as usual. Patrick can’t tell if Jonathan has one hiding somewhere, but if he does, at least the guy isn’t on the Canadian bench. Patrick’s teammates – all pretty good guys, or at least they are around him – are wary of sitting anywhere near Bruce.

Patrick doesn’t blame them.

He’s a good bodyguard, but isn’t much for conversation, and he kind of looks like he could break a tree with one hand. Patrick’s only convinced him to play _Need for Speed_ with him once, in the whole year that the guy’s been working for the royal family. It’s kind of sad. Patrick’s last bodyguard would always sit and play with him, but she took a leave of absence to have a kid.

He straightens up when the anthem finally stops, and the lights in the arena start going, and the crowd starts cheering. His parents and sisters are sitting up in a protected box, and he can see the Canadian royal family in one on the opposite side of the arena. He looks back at the ice, and at the line of guys in red across from him and his boys in blue, and thinks _let’s play_.

It’s no-contact, like it’s supposed to be, for the first ten minutes or so – then Ryan slams hard into one of the Canadian guys, and they both get called, but it’s like open season for the rest of the players after that. Everyone avoids him and Toews like the plague, for a while, before Patrick ducks in and steals the puck right out from a guy’s stick and slams it into net. He wonders, idly, if the Canadian players thought he wasn’t going to be good, like he hasn’t been playing hockey since he could walk, before he’s surrounded by teammates, getting jumped and hugged. 

Bruce is standing up, arms crossed, when Patrick skates back to the bench. He grins and says, “Oh, stop it, they were _hugging_ me, not mauling me. I scored!” Bruce, begrudgingly, sits back down. 

Toews gets an assist not long after that, and Patrick has to shake off this weird feeling that sets in when their eyes meet. Whatever, it figures the guy would be good: Canada is crazy about hockey, everyone knows it. It’s probably required, like military service is. 

Patrick can still beat him.

It’s two to three though, when Patrick turns suddenly on the ice, catching sight of Ryan flinging the puck out toward him and reaching out his stick to try and get it on tape, and somebody crashes into him and they both go down. 

His stick goes flying across the ice, and he doesn’t know where the puck is; he’s out of breath and feels like his stomach is exploding with – with little sparks, spreading out through his arms and legs and pressing out through his skin. He snaps his head up to look at who knocked into him, his mouth guard falling out of his mouth when he sees a bright red uniform – and Jonathan Toews’ face staring at him, pale except for his red cheeks and nose, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide, a devastating hazel-brown that Patrick can’t look away from. 

Him and Jonathan – it’s crazy. It’s something you’d see in a Disney movie, two royals bonding at first touch. It just doesn’t happen naturally; it’s why royal bondings are arranged so often. But he can feel it building, knows it in the way he can’t stop staring and Jonathan is looking right back. They just fucking _bonded_ , right there on the ice.

Neither of them can move, or maybe it’s just that they don’t _want_ to, and Patrick reaches out to touch his fingers to Jonathan’s face, before realizing his gloves are in the way. By the time he gets them off, Bruce is there, grabbing at his shoulder and saying something loudly – “Prince Patrick, are you alright?”

The sound of the arena comes back then, the realization that both teams are standing there, watching, that the medical teams are running onto the ice, overreacting like always, and that – that everyone saw them fall, and not get back up, and maybe they don’t understand, maybe they don’t even realize –

He pushes forward and smashes his mouth to Jonathan’s.

Jonathan kisses him back, but then pulls back, shaking. 

Patrick hears the roar of the crowd in his ears, but he’s dizzy, all the sudden, and so hot he feels like he could burn up, and that’s – that’s what happens when you accept the bond, when it pushes its way in and everything just _focuses_ , on you and the person you’re bonding with, and he can feel, suddenly, a sharp spike of alarm that he doesn’t think is his, before he falls over and it all goes black.

 

He wakes up with an overwhelming feeling of panic, and it takes a long minute for him to realize it isn’t _his_ panic. He’s still on the ice, but he’s on a stretcher; the crowd is still loud around him, but nobody’s cheering, and the wheels under the stretcher are moving, pushing him towards the tunnel. He tries to sit up and gets a, “Prince Patrick!” for his trouble, from one of the medical guys. 

“Stop fucking moving,” he groans, putting a hand to his head. It feels like he slammed it against the boards, all sore and hurting. There’s a flare of something – relief, maybe, before someone grabs his hand, and he looks up again. 

“Hey,” Jonathan says, still breathing hard from the game. 

“Hey,” Patrick says back, smiling despite his headache, despite the stupid stretcher and the ice being taken over by half the royal staff, walking around in their shoes like jerks. “I’m okay,” he adds, because he can _feel_ the worry, sort of hazy and all over the place.

Sometimes people pass out when they bond, there’s no reason for them to have put him on a stupid _stretcher_. He says, “Help me get off this thing,” and Jonathan hesitates. But then Bruce is pushing the stupid stretcher quickly, before Jonathan can give in, probably.

“Jonny,” Jonathan says, suddenly, like he thinks he actually needs to introduce himself. He’s gliding on the ice quickly to keep up with the stretcher. After a second, Patrick realizes that Jonathan – Jonny – has a hand on it, helping pull it towards the tunnel.

“Patrick,” he says back. 

“We bonded,” Jonny says, quickly, and Patrick feels a burst of nerves bubble out, and can’t tell if they’re his or not. He thinks maybe both. 

“Yeah,” he says, and when they get off the ice and down the tunnel, away from all the people and cameras alike, they let him climb down. He falls into Jonny’s chest, losing balance on his skates. Jonny catches him, and Patrick feels that weird surge of determination again. It’s weird because it doesn’t seem like an emotion he should be having right then – or Jonny, either. 

Patrick figures he’s going to be confused a lot, though, as they figure it all out.

His mom is running down the hall a minute later. Well, not running – Queens don’t run. But she’s walking briskly, and when she reaches him, she grabs him and pulls him in for a hug, even though he’s sweaty and gross and she’s in a nice, super expensive dress. 

“I’m fine,” Patrick groans, and then turns to grab Jonny’s hand and say, “So, guess what!”

He doesn’t know if Jonny’s amused or irritated, but he doesn’t let either show on his face as he bends into a formal bow, and then says, “Your majesty,” like he’s at some royal function and not Patrick’s new _bondmate_. 

“Prince Jonathan,” his mom says. “Both of you – did you bond on the ice?” 

If she wasn’t so composed, Patrick would say she sounds incredulous, maybe even disbelieving. As it is, he can feel a spike of nervous energy, and he looks at Jonny, before he looks back to his mom, biting his bottom lip, and says, “Yes? Yeah. We bonded. Holy shit, we bonded.”

Jonny squeezes his hand tighter, and Patrick thinks Jonny is – rolling his eyes, maybe. Only when Patrick looks at him, he looks like the model prince, nothing to betray what he’s really thinking. He says, “Yes,” and then looks at Patrick, and his eyes look bigger, somehow, and stupidly attractive, and Patrick just wants to lean up and kiss him, appropriate timing or not, “it was instantaneous.”

A moment later there’s a small group of men in Canadian red coming down the hall, and Jonny’s nerves flare up, making Patrick suddenly have to bend over, breathe, and try not to be sick. Jonny moves to follow him, but the added worry kind of makes it worse. Patrick really hopes this whole emotional transference thing is going to calm down soon.

And that’s the King and Queen of Canada, and their other son, Prince David, hurrying down the hall. 

Jonny hasn’t stopped rubbing his hand in soothing circles over the back of his neck. It helps, but it’s just as distracting, and when he manages to stand up straight again, it’s to hear Queen Andree say, “Well, we have a few interesting weeks ahead of us. A natural royal bonding; how long has it been?”

One of the men behind her answers, “One-hundred and forty-seven years, Your Majesty.”

All Patrick can think is _Jesus_. He looks at Jonny, and gives him a weak smile. Jonny drops the polite look he’s had since Patrick’s mom arrived, and asks, quiet, but still enough that both Queens can probably hear him, “Patrick, are you okay? Do we need to see a doctor?”

His mom is suddenly closer too, and her face is pinched with worry.

Patrick shakes his head, and says, “It’s just – a lot of emotions.”

Jonny seems surprised for a second, and then asks, “You can feel my emotions?”

Patrick frowns. “You can’t feel mine?”

Jonny shakes his head this time, almost helpless looking, and says, “Just – you. That you’re here, that I –” He cuts off and clears his throat, standing back up straight. _Right_ , Patrick thinks, flushing. Inappropriate timing. And audience.

“Well,” Queen Andree says, after a moment, “we’ll have time to learn more about the bond at a later juncture. We should return to the palace quickly and coordinate with the press before they go wild. Is that amenable, Donna?”

It’s almost startling to hear someone other than family use his mom’s first name, but she’s agreeing anyway, and then they’re all being shuffled out of the arena as well as they can, only stopping long enough for Patrick and Jonny to get changed out of their uniforms and put back on their suits, in separate rooms.

Apparently even being bonded doesn’t get Patrick the right to see Prince Jonathan in all his natural glory.

When they come out, Jonny’s hair is still damp from the quick shower he must have taken, and he swallows and rushes over to take Patrick’s hand again, like he’s been yearning for it. The weird sense of desperation Patrick’s been feeling might make sense if Jonny’s feeling separation effects, rather than emotional transference, like Patrick is.

Patrick’s vaguely sure that that means they’re not going to be able to separate more than a few yards, let alone country borders. On one hand, that’s going to prove problematic, but on the other, it’s really nice too. He doesn’t _want_ to leave Jonny, not now that he _has_ him.

They ride in the same car, although both their families take other vehicles, partially because it’s safety protocol, and partially because they wouldn’t all fit in one car anyway, but mostly, Patrick thinks, it’s to give them a little privacy. They just bonded and they haven’t even been alone yet. 

Patrick doesn’t even have to ask; Jonny rolls up the black separator, closing off the driver’s sight of them, and then he’s leaning in, ignoring his own country’s laws about seatbelts, and kissing Patrick hard and fast, like he can’t believe it’s taken this long to do it. Patrick pushes back, an embarrassing moan breaking up the silence, and he’s so turned on and overwhelmed by all the emotions – how much he wants, and how much _Jonny_ wants him back – that he’s dizzy with it, can hardly keep up with Jonny’s mouth and hands, fumbling and everywhere all at once.

Jonny pulls back just long enough for Patrick to see his face, his eyes dark and pupils dilated, and breathing hard out of his mouth, wet from how they’d been kissing a second ago. Patrick feels sick with nerves in his stomach, but even so, all he wants is to be kissing Jonny again, and then never stop. 

He’s tugging at Jonny’s suit jacket, and Jonny’s got Patrick’s tie off and half of his buttons undone before Jonny makes an irritated noise and _climbs up over Patrick’s lap_ , ridiculous thighs straining against the material of his black slacks as his entire body seems to rub against Patrick’s at once. Jonny says, “Shit, ouch,” when his head hits the ceiling of the car, but then he’s adjusting, putting more of his weight over Patrick, and what little amusement Patrick had had is gone, replaced by pure need.

“Fuck,” Patrick breathes out against Jonny’s neck, and he swallows and narrowly avoids whimpering when Jonny’s hands, a little cold, press against his skin, getting his shirt open all the way. His thumb scrapes over Patrick’s nipple and he’s arching up, cursing into Jonny’s mouth and not even caring about the fact that they met not an _hour_ ago for the first time.

“Jonny, Jonny, Jonny,” he keeps saying, desperate between hard presses of their mouths, and he can feel Jonny’s hard dick pressing up against him, and works until he can palm it through the material of his slacks. The burst of crazy, unchecked arousal he gets does him in, and he’s coming so hard in his own pants that he sees stars for a minute, sharp bursts of light behind his eyelids that almost gives him a headache on top of the one he already has.

Jonny’s not far behind him, and then he pants against Patrick’s bare neck, his entire chest moving with every breath, like he just ran a marathon or had a triple-shift on the ice. Then he smiles down at Patrick, eyes bright, and almost looks – not shy, exactly, but hopeful, maybe. 

“Oh my God,” Patrick says, and grabs him for another kiss before the car comes to a slow halt, and they hear a knock on the partition, alerting them that they need to, uh, compose themselves and exit the vehicle.

“There are probably cameras out there,” Jonny mumbles against Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick groans, countering with, “Our _families_ are out there.”

“Fuck,” Jonny says, wincing, and then very reluctantly – Patrick can actually _feel_ how reluctant, and it makes him giddy – climbs off of Patrick’s lap. Then they both realize they, uh, have some pretty obvious dark stains on their trousers, and they end up having to untuck their shirts and let them hang low, even though that makes it pretty obvious what they were doing. 

Even so, Patrick is getting this constant mix of emotions from Jonny, happiness and pride and determination, and just – there’s so much _pride_ there, like Jonny can’t even contain how stupidly pleased he is, with Patrick and the bond and everything it entails, that it’s making Patrick even more unsteady and light-headed than he was before. It feels so good that he wants to lie down in it and never move, soaking it all in.

Jonny makes this hurt little sound in the back of his throat when Patrick climbs out of the car first, and then grabs Patrick’s hand as soon as he’s standing up on the gravel himself, tightening his hold and twisting their fingers together. Patrick can’t help grinning like an absolute moron, and then Jonny glances at him and his smile cracks until he has a grin that makes him look just as dumb.

There _are_ cameras, as it turns out, catching everything they do even as they hurry up the palace steps, escorted by their bodyguards. Patrick knows they’re going to make one hell of an embarrassing picture slide later on, and that the entire world is going to see how stupid he and Jonny are for each other, and worse, that all three of his sisters are going to torture him constantly after this (bonding on the ice and then doing the Prince of Canada in the back of a car is pretty ace chirping material), but he’s okay with it.

He’s maybe even kind of looking forward to it.


End file.
